


Smashed, Actually

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, a pinch of Christmas, drunk and disorderly conduct, some punching may occur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper takes Lestrade home after the Baker Street Christmas party. But thanks to Sherlock's shenanigans, Lestrade finds he would rather wander the streets of London with nothing but his coat and a pack of smokes. That is, until Sherlock tracks him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smashed, Actually

“Are you sure you’ll make it home alright?” John asked. “We can always just call him a cab. I mean, I know he avoids them ever since… well, you know.” 

Molly waved her hand dismissively, fumbling with her car keys as she and John gently shut the detective inspector into Molly’s small sedan. “Oh, no! No, it’s fine. Fine, really, I’ll make sure he gets home.” 

John gave her a quick half-smile. “Great. Thanks, Molly — seriously, thanks for coming. It was really great to have you here with us.” With us — John winced. Knocking on the window, he peered through the glass at Lestrade, who was sprawled out in the passenger seat. “Drink a lot of water when you get home. A lot. Doctor’s orders.” 

Greg buried his face in his hands and refused to answer. 

“Well, I better get him back,” Molly filled in, scampering back to the driver’s side.

“Yeah, good plan.” John stepped back, waving them off. “And good luck,” he muttered as he turned around, running back up the stairs to 221B. 

As they pulled away from Baker Street, Molly glanced over at the intoxicated DI. “Well, you got a bit plastered, didn’t you?” she asked with a cheery smile. 

Greg shook his head slowly and struggled to sit up. “No,” he grunted. “No, I don’t get plastered. I am very-…” He paused, wobbled in his seat and immediately laid back down. “Right, yeah. Completely smashed right now.” 

Molly couldn’t resist a quiet giggle. “Well, no worries. We’ll have you back home in a bit.” She checked her mirrors and put extra effort into her turn signals. She doubted he would have noticed, but there was something oddly unnerving about having a policeman in the car while driving.

“That’s a perfect holiday, isn’t it?” She asked brightly. “A lovely party with your friends, having drinks, exchanging presents. And coming back to your own home at the end of it all where you can tuck into pyjamas and curl up in a nice warm bed? Perfect, in my opinion.” 

The detective inspector didn’t answer. He’d rested his head against the window, and was staring absently at the city as it rolled past.

“Where am I taking you, by the way? I asked Sherlock to put your address in my phone’s GPS, but… he must be a little tipsy, too.” She laughed. “He’s put mine in it by accident.” 

Utter silence — although if she’d glanced at him again, she might have noticed the sudden tightness in his jaw that had nothing to do with his alcohol consumption. 

After a long pause, he answered her quietly. “Just take me to the Yard, if you don’t mind.”

Molly looked bewildered. “To Scotland Yard? Now? But Greg, it’s Christmas,” she chided, trying to keep her tone as light and chipper as possible. With any luck, she might rub off on him, and he would cheer up a bit. “Won’t everything be all closed up?”

“I’ve got a key.” 

“Well.” Molly bit her lip. “No…” 

Greg turned to look at her slowly.

“Sherlock felt… he wanted to be sure you didn’t resist and try and drive home. He has them.” 

“Sherlock Holmes has the keys to my bloody car.” 

Molly nodded. 

“And to my house. And Scotland Yard.” 

Molly’s grip tightened on the wheel as she stared straight ahead. “Yes,” she answered after a moment. 

“Stop the car.” 

“I can’t.”

“Molly, stop the car right now.” 

“I can’t! We’re on a bridge!” Molly cried.

Greg sunk back into the seat, pinching the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and forefinger. He took a few laboured breaths through his nose in an effort to calm down. Unfortunately, the thought of Sherlock Holmes having access to London’s central police department only made him more nauseous. 

“So… let me get this straight. Sherlock told you to take me home.” 

“Yes.”

“And he took my keys.” 

“Yes.”

“And now he has my car.”

“…yes.” 

“I’ll kill him.” 

Molly took a quick breath, trying to judge the best way to diffuse the tension without suddenly locking the car doors. “He had good intentions, obviously,” she answered soothingly. 

“The slippery road to Hell,” Lestrade retorted. 

“Well, thankfully we can’t go there. So, ehm. Where’s your place, then? Your wife will let you in, right?” She regretted the question the moment it came out of her mouth. “Oh, I mean-… well, I-” She fumbled over her words briefly. “I guess… you could stay with me? I’ve got a small couch…” 

What could he possibly say? He couldn’t go home — Sherlock had successfully ruined that prospect earlier that evening. He couldn’t go to the office because Sherlock had taken his keys. He couldn’t even go back and sleep in his car, because of Sherlock Holmes. Even his friends and loved ones were off limits that night because of the holiday. He could never bring himself to interrupt someone else’s Christmas just because he couldn’t stomach the thought of returning home.

He had no options, and the thought cut too deeply for words. 

“No, thank you,” he answered quietly.

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind.” 

Lestrade didn’t hear her. He patted down his coat, checking his pockets for his wallet, or ID — anything to get him through the night. Sherlock had left him with absolutely nothing but a tenner and some coins. And — as he reached into his trouser pocket — his cellphone. 

Relief washed over him as he tugged it out. He’d never been so glad to see the stupid thing in his life. But the longer he stared at the small, black phone with it’s tiny, almost imperceivable buttons, the more he realised how utterly useless it was to him, even now. He fought back the urge to chuck it out the window. 

“Just let me out here, thanks.” 

Molly hesitated. “Here? I mean, I don’t even know where we are.” 

“That’s Hyde Park behind us.” He answered. “This’ll do.” 

Molly eased the car over to the side of the road. “But… how will you get home?” 

“I’ll manage,” Greg answered as he climbed out. “Thanks, Molly.” 

“Yeah, sure, but-” The DI shut the door before she could finish her question. Pursing her lips, she watched him walk away in her rear view mirror.

Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked. He doubted it was mercy that had moved him to such an end, but he was grateful that Sherlock had left him his coat. It was the one good thing in a sea of helplessness to top off the evening. 

As he walked, his fingers brushed against the ten pound note he’d tucked away. Well, perhaps the coat wasn’t the only good thing. He paused at a corner store, helping himself to a pack of cigarettes before continuing on in his wandering. He had to keep warm some how, and he couldn’t think of a better, more affordable way than sooty, nicotine-infused smokes. 

He’d made it about twelve blocks before Sherlock found him. Bundled up and disgruntled looking, the consulting detective hunted him down on the streets of London — somehow fully aware of exactly where he’d be, even though he’d opted not to wander into the park, as was his original plan. Greg suspected that Sherlock had cheated, and had followed him using the GPS on his cellphone, but the younger man would never admit to having done something so obvious. But why else would Sherlock had left him with his cellphone, knowing full well that Greg was incompetent with technology on his best days? At some point in the last year, Sherlock had set his own number to the number one slot in Greg’s speed dial — for ease of access, he’d said, in the event the detective inspector landed a particularly tantalising case. 

Greg would have used it on a number of occasions, too. If he’d known how to access the speed dial. 

But he certainly wouldn’t have done it that night. He was content to walk the city streets, casting shadows in the lamplight and slowly burning his way through a pair of lungs and a pack of smokes. It was oddly cathartic, in its own way — reminiscent of night watch as a young PC. But that was years and years ago, and the world was a much different place now. 

He knew it was Sherlock running up behind him by the sound of his expensive Italian shoes slapping against the concrete. There was no mistaking it, but even if he had — he had nothing to steal except a shitty phone that he was considering just giving away to the next homeless person he came across. 

The consulting detective grabbed him by the shoulder. 

And something inside Greg snapped. It wasn’t premeditated, and it was so out of character that even Sherlock couldn’t have predicted it. But the loss of will from too much alcohol, the mellowed rage of nicotine and the emotional trauma of being out in the cold with no where to go had formed an explosive fuel. All it needed was the catalyst — a single touch on the arm — to ignite. 

He pivoted on his heel, arm lifting as he turned. His fingers curled and his mouth tightened around his cigarette as he moved. It took less than a second for his fist to connect squarely with the middle of Sherlock’s face. 

The consulting detective was floored — quite literally. The impact took him by surprise and knocked him clean off his feet. He hit the concrete with a heavy thud, and decided — provided the DI didn’t suddenly jump him — to stay put for a moment. At least, until his lungs had a chance to re-inflate. 

Greg stared down at him with a glossy, half-present expression. His cigarette burned bright red for a moment — the only evidence that he’d taken a very deep breath. His rage slowly fizzled as he noticed blood dripping down Sherlock’s shocked, pallid face. 

“Serves you right,” he muttered, relaxing his shoulders.

The consulting detective had nothing to say. There was nothing he could say. Every time he opened his mouth, blood spilled in, and he learned after two attempts that he wasn’t fond of choking on it. Rolling on to his side, he clutched at the concrete, coughing and wheezing as his breath came back.

Lestrade calmly took another drag. 

Eventually Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to ignore the wave of nausea rolling around in the pit of his stomach. He was very rarely speechless — but until his mind had a chance to catch up with the details, his mouth had nothing to say. 

“Get up.”

“Why, so you can hit me again?” He was in shock. If he didn’t have the evidence of a broken nose and a split lip, he might not have believed it had actually happened.

Greg reached down to grab the younger man under the arm. Sherlock flinched, but struggled to his feet as the DI hoisted him up. “We’re going to the hospital,” he answered.

Sherlock tried to stop, digging his heels into the ground, but Lestrade yanked him forward. “I’m fine. I’ll get John to look at it.” 

“You took my ID.” Lestrade’s grip tightened on Sherlock’s arm as he spoke. “You took my money.” 

“I left your phone,” Sherlock cut in with a wince.

“You put me in a car with Dr. Hooper — knowing I couldn’t go home, and that I wouldn’t have anywhere else to stay.” 

“I did not-”

“You put her own address in her GPS.” 

“Unintentional mistake.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I was doing you a favour.” Sherlock protested, clawing at Greg’s hand and having no success at loosening the DI’s hold. “She’s lonely and single. You’re lonely and- ow!” He was fairly sure that Lestrade had no medical understanding of what he was doing, but the DI seemed perfectly aware of the pain he was causing by driving his thumb down to the bone in Sherlock’s arm. “It makes perfect sense!” Sherlock yelled, exasperated. 

“Shut up. You’re delusional from blood loss.” 

Sherlock stopped abruptly and ripped his arm free of Greg’s grasp with as much strength as he could muster. The effort made him stumble, and caused the world to spin around him quickly — but he was free, and that was satisfying. Greg watched him wobble. Any other day, he might’ve leapt in and caught him and held him steady — but tonight, as far as he was concerned, the boy could land on his arse and he wouldn’t bat an eye. 

Somehow — with all the grace of a newborn giraffe — Sherlock managed to stay on his feet. 

“I am disoriented, yes. But never delusional.” 

“There’s a video on my phone that says differently.” Suddenly he felt grateful that the miserable thing was safely in his pocket and not, as he would have preferred hours earlier, at the bottom of the Thames. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes — and instantly regretted the decision. “You don’t know how to use the video feature,” he wheezed, taking a breath to steady himself. 

“I do, actually. We play a game at the Yard where we stack things on Dimmock while he’s sleeping. Had to learn how to document the evidence.” 

“And they say I’m the psychopath.” 

“Sociopath,” Lestrade corrected. “They’ve learned.”

Sherlock grunted and gingerly touched his mouth. The front of his coat was stained, and his scarf — his favourite blue scarf — seemed hopelessly ruined. 

With what little vestiges of compassion he had left, Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s hand, pulling it away. “Don’t touch it,” he warned. “Come on… we’re going to the hospital.” 

“We’re walking?” 

“Yes.” 

“St. Mary’s is seven blocks from here.” 

Greg nodded. “I know.” 

“Are you really that afraid of London cabbies now?” 

“Tell you what,” Greg answered. “If you pass out in a pool of your own blood, then I’ll get in a cab for you. But we’re still going to the hospital.” 

“You would not. You’d call the ambulance.” 

“But I’d still tell you it was a cab. And you’d have been unconscious, so you’d never know.” 

“Oh, please,” Sherlock answered, tone edged with sarcasm. “Any halfwit can tell if they’ve been riding in a cab or an ambulance.” 

Greg ignored him and calmly pulled another cigarette from his coat. “Light this for me,” he replied, holding out his lighter. He’d reached an unpleasant level of sobriety, but he wasn’t dexterous enough to work it with his left hand. His right, obviously, was preoccupied — his fingers had become entangled with Sherlock’s and he clearly had no intention to let go before they reached St. Mary’s. Sherlock took it compliantly and held the flame out for him. 

“Thanks,” the DI mumbled around the cigarette while slipping the lighter back into his pocket. 

“Of course,” Sherlock answered dismissively. 

They walked on in silence for several minutes, Sherlock making note of things he observed and contemplating the peculiar nature of their circumstances, and Greg blissfully ignoring everything but the smoke pouring out of his mouth. When Sherlock did speak up, it was more of a reassurance to himself that the events of that evening had actually happened, than an attempt at conversation.

“We’re spending Christmas night together at St. Mary’s hospital.” 

Greg smiled. “Charming, isn’t it?”


End file.
